


La Petit Mort

by DrWorm



Category: Re-Animator
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:13:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrWorm/pseuds/DrWorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is not pain, but its complete and devastating absence. Herbert and Dan nurse their corporeal and psychic injuries in the first week following the events that led to Meg's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Petit Mort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetcarolanne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetcarolanne/gifts).



“I think I died that night,” Herbert said. He was standing, shirtless, with both arms over his head and folded at the elbows as Dan wrapped a fresh bandage around his ribs.

“Huh?” Dan gave the bandage a jerk, tightening it and causing Herbert to stagger slightly.

“I died,” Herbert repeated. He spoke in a raspy whisper, a consequence of the chemical burns in his throat that were still healing. “I think.”

Dan looked up at him. He was sitting on the closed toilet seat, still wearing his scrubs. With one hand he picked up the roll of surgical tape from off the edge of the bathtub. “No, you didn’t,” he said, then used his teeth to tear a strip from the roll.

“I could have.” Herbert watched the way Dan’s met in a furrow and the way his lips pressed tighter together until they became a thin hatchet-wound below his nose. It had been his first day back at school, as well as his first day back at the emergency room. “Something happened, before—”

“Nothing happened.” Dan tore off another piece of tape with more force than necessary. “You blacked out.”

“The reagent I’d had before… it could have…” Herbert’s voice became softer until he was mumbling to himself. “It’s working now, that’s why… Dr. Farcourt says…”

“Shut up,” Dan said, patting the tape into place. “You’re loopy from the codeine. Go to bed.”

Herbert lowered his arms and plucked his shirt from where he’d left it hanging on the towel rack. “I died,” he said. His pupils were wide and dark and made it seem to Dan as if he were looking at something beyond the wall that Dan couldn’t see if he tried. “You’ll see. I’m dead right now.” He smiled briefly, turned, and shuffled out the bathroom door.

  


The next night, Dan unwrapped the bandages and said, “I’m not rewrapping them now. You’re supposed to do deep breathing.”

“It hurts.” Herbert pushed his glasses up onto the top of his head, rubbed his eyes, then scratched at the perfectly round scar the laser drill had left behind on his forehead.

“You’ll get pneumonia.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You need to breathe.”

“No, I don’t.” He turned his myopic, fishlike stare on Dan. “I’m dead. I don’t need to breathe.”

Dan stared back. “If you were dead, it wouldn’t hurt.”

“You don’t know that.” Herbert had begun to pick at the scar, drawing tiny beads of blood to the surface. “You don’t know that at all.”

Dan rewrapped his ribs and said nothing else to Herbert for two days.

  


Herbert was asleep on the living room couch when the sound of the front door opening jarred him awake. The sun was setting behind the house and orange light had seeped from the kitchen door onto the floor in front of him. Dan was supposed to be at the hospital. The front door opened and someone switched on the lamp, which made Herbert wince. He sat up slowly, mindful of the aching in his sides, and picked his glasses up off the coffee table. “You’re early, Dan. I thought—” He stopped as soon as he had his glasses on and stared at the man in front of him. “What do you want?”

The policeman shifted, looking uncomfortable. “My name is Officer Harris. I’m just dropping off Mr. Cain,” he said, then stepped to the side so Herbert could see Dan standing behind him. Dan was very pale and his expression was strained. He kept his eyes on the floor. His coat had been draped over his shoulders and the front of his shirt was soaked with blood. “There was an incident.”

“Dan?” Dan’s eyes twitched up to look at Herbert. There was a spray of blood across his nose, in even dots and smears like freckles. “What happened?”

He and the policeman both waited a moment, but Dan didn’t reply. Officer Harris sighed. “Had an unhappy man with a gun in the hospital today.”

Herbert kicked his blanket away and began the laborious and awkward process of standing, one arm wrapped around his midsection and the other clawing at the arm of the couch. “Who died?” he asked.

“He did,” Dan whispered.

“It was a suicide,” Harris confirmed. “No other injuries, thank God.”

“Indeed,” Herbert said stiffly as he approached them. He stood in front of Dan and looked him up and down. There were tiny flecks of brain and other tissues on his chest that had been invisible from afar.

Harris hitched up his belt. “It’s just that—” he glanced at Dan, then turned back to Herbert with a meaningful nod. “Well, your friend here—”

“Go change, Dan,” Herbert said, raising his voice above the throaty croak he had been using. The words snagged and rasped in his vocal cords. Dan lifted his head, nodded, and waded off through the dwindling patch of sun and down the hallway, still wearing his coat.

“A bad situation,” the officer said once the sound of Dan’s footsteps had receded. “From what I gather, he was closest to the guy when it happened.”

“Evidently.”

Officer Harris ignored this. “Behind him, just a couple of feet back. Going for the gun, I guess. He’s lucky this guy was using hollow points and the bullet didn’t make it to him.” He cleared his throat. “Awful messy, though.”

"Yes."

Harris looked Herbert up and down, appraising him. "And I guess Mr. Cain just couldn't handle it all. Not after what happened with... well. I suppose you know, don't you?" Herbert didn't answer. Harris's lips spread, not into a smile but into a grimace. "When we got there he was doing chest compression and CPR." He stuck his hands into his pockets "Nothing wrong with that, of course. Except when half the man's head is missing and his brains are all over you and the floor."

Herbert stared at the officer for longer than was comfortable. "I see," he whispered once he saw Harris begin to shuffle his feet and edge his way toward the door. "Thank you," he added, "for bringing him home."

"Not a problem," Harris said, nodding to Herbert and putting one hand on the doorknob. "I think you should try to convince your friend to stay home for a few days. Take a break. He's been through quite a bit in such a short time."

"Perhaps," Herbert said, and then watched in silence as Officer Harris nodded to him one final time and then left, closing the door behind him. Then he followed Dan's path down the hall. He checked first in Dan's bedroom--where he found Dan's jacket on the floor just inside the door--then in his own bedroom, and finally in the bathroom, which was where he found Dan standing and staring at himself in the mirror. He had not taken off his soiled scrubs. His face was still pockmarked with blood.

"You have to shower," Herbert said slowly. Dan flinched, but didn't move. "Shower and change. You'll feel better." Dan closed his eyes and leaned forward, placing his hands on the sink and gripping the porcelain tightly. His shoulders began to shake. Herbert waited patiently as Dan gagged, vomited, and then shuddered with silent sobs. He went to the bath and turned the taps, testing the water for optimal temperature and stopping the drain. He sat on the edge of the tub as it filled, watching Dan suffer the way a child might watch a fly trapped on flypaper struggle to free itself.

When the bath was full, he placed one hand on Dan's shoulder to get his attention. "Go on." Dan didn't respond. Herbert sighed and began to leave. He stopped at the bathroom door and said, "I'll be in my room when you're finished. If there's anything more I can do..." He hesitated, as if trying to think of something else to offer or some other way to coax Dan into movement.

"It was because of us," Dan said to his own image in the mirror.

"What?"

"His wife was in the morgue when--" Dan bit his lip to stop the rest of the thought from escaping. "They cremated her and buried the ashes as a biohazard. He didn't even get to have a funeral."

"She was already dead," Herbert said patiently. "She would still be dead now if Dr. Hill hadn't--"

Dan shook his head. "We made it worse."

"Think what you want." Herbert rubbed his thumb over the doorjamb. "If you leave your clothes by the door, I'll dispose of them." He was gone before Dan could argue their guilt in any greater detail.

  


Five minutes later, the scrubs appeared outside the closed bathroom door. Herbert diligently put them into a trash bag, double-knotted it shut, and took the bag out to the garbage can on the back porch. The cool fall air made his breath visible and stung his lungs and throat. When he was back in the kitchen he coughed and coughed until his abdomen ached and a thin film of bloody mucus had collected in his cupped palms. He spat into the sink, then washed his hands as if he were preparing for surgery. After he had dried his hands and arms, he limped back to his room. The bathroom door was still shut when he went past.

He laid down on his bed, on top of the mess of sheets and blankets, and stared at the ceiling. He imagined Dan standing, open-mouthed, as the man pulled the trigger. He imagined blood in Dan's mouth, in his hair, on his face. Dan would be washing it off now, surely, turning the water pink. When he stepped out and pulled the plug from the drain, a rusty stain would leave a ring that wouldn't fade for several days.

Herbert pushed down on his right side and then on his left, wincing slightly more at the pressure on the left. He cleared his throat and looked over at the bottle of painkillers on his bedside table. It was too early for him to take another. He mourned the hospital's confiscation of his reagent. They would never learn anything from it, the idiots, and if he had it surely he could just take a little and his ribs would knit themselves together without any need for pain or opiates or waiting. He folded his hands over his chest, corpse-like, and hoped for sleep.

He was still fully awake when Dan knocked, though he had no idea how much time had passed until he looked at the clock. He was surprised to see that it had been several hours since he had left Dan in the bathroom, and yet he could not recall precisely what it was he had been thinking about during the time he had spent lying there, looking at the ceiling, waiting. He turned his head when Dan opened his door.

"Can I come in?" Dan asked. Herbert nodded and watched as Dan came inside, stepping over Herbert's clutter to his bedside. "Were you sleeping?"

"Yes."

"I can come back."

"No." Herbert shifted his body into a more comfortable position, but did not sit up. "It's all right."

Dan plucked at the hem of the old flannel shirt he had put on. "Do you need a new bandage?"

"Soon," Herbert said.

"Can I sit?" Dan asked. Herbert nodded and was surprised when Dan sat beside him on the bed, near enough that he could feel the heat of Dan’s thigh as came to rest close to his own. “I don’t think I can stand to be alone.” Herbert had to turn his head and strain to hear Dan’s words.

“No,” Herbert agreed. “It wouldn’t be good for you.”

They sat together in silence for several minutes before Dan spoke again. “I miss Meg.”

“Yes,” Herbert said cautiously. He was afraid that Dan would begin to cry again, really cry, as he had on the day of her funeral. Dan had come home and cried with huge, whooping, wailing sobs, his face crumpled and wet with tears and snot, while Herbert had hovered beside him, hugging himself to combat the ache of gravity.

But Dan only twisted his fingers together and looked down at his lap. “If you want, I can go get the bandages and we can change them in here.”

“All right.”

Dan did not stand up. “I heard you coughing.”

“Oh?”

“You can’t wear the bandages all of the time. I know it hurts, but Dr. Farcourt said—”

“Fine!” Herbert pulled himself up and onto his feet. Irritated, he wrenched off his white t-shirt and flung it across the room, entirely missing the hamper. He stood in front of Dan and raised his arms over his head, elbows bent and forearms folded one over the other. “Go on, take it off.”

Dan’s hands were gentle as he picked at the surgical tape and began to unravel the dressing, ghosting over Herbert’s exposed chest. The deep purple bruises had faded to an ugly mottle of yellow and green. He watched as Herbert took a deep breath and then stopped, holding it in, tightening his stomach against the pain. “Is it bad?”

“Yes,” Herbert hissed through his teeth. “Of course it is.” He dropped his arms down to his sides. When he tried to take a step back, Dan’s hands fell to his hips.

“Maybe we should go to the hospital,” Dan said as he stood. One of his hands slipped around to Herbert’s lower back, as if to support him.

“No.” Dan’s closeness was making him feel trapped. Herbert took another deep breath. “Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

“Herbert?”

Herbert turned his head to look Dan in the eye. The pressure on his hip disappeared and then he felt Dan’s hand on his chest, palm down, pressing firmly against his sternum. He held his breath.

“I can feel your heartbeat.” Dan said. “I think you’re alive.” He leaned in further, closing the remaining gap between them, and pressed his lips to Herbert’s.

Herbert immediately pushed him away. “What are you doing?” he hissed. Dan stared at him, uncomprehending. “I’m not Meg.”

“I know.”

“So don’t—” Herbert had to pause to take a gulping breath. “Don’t do that.”

Dan looked confused. “Why?”

“Because you’re not like that.” Herbert tried to twist away, out of Dan’s reach. “You just… you’re still in shock.” Dan let him go, and Herbert stumbled back, momentarily disoriented. “You want comfort,” he said, struggling to breathe as he bent over to pick up his shirt.

“So what if I do?” There was no irritation in Dan’s voice, nor sadness. The blankness of it was somehow worse than an excess of emotion ever could have been.

“You shouldn’t be coming to me for it,” Herbert said as he tugged the t-shirt over his head. The fabric became bunched and tangled at his neck and his arms began to ache as he struggled to sort it out.

He didn’t realize how quickly he was breathing until Dan came up behind him and said, “Okay, okay. Don’t hyperventilate. Relax.” Dan helped him straighten out the shirt. “It’s not such a big deal.”

“If you think that, you’re as much of an idiot as I thought when I first met you.”

Dan’s hand lingered at the back of his neck, making Herbert’s skin crawl in a way that was not entirely unpleasant. “You thought I was an idiot?”

“No,” Herbert eventually admitted. He felt Dan’s fingers at the sensitive spot behind his ear, stroking lightly. He braced himself, expecting another physical onslaught.

Instead, Dan asked, “When you died—when you _think_ you died—how did it feel?”

Herbert thought for a moment. He barely remembered talking to Dan about his theory, although he had spent idle hours ruminating on it, turning over the moments when the panic of suffocation had become something else, something entirely new and unreal. “Empty.”

“I don’t want to feel empty.” Dan leaned in behind him and his breath tickled the inner ridges of Herbert’s ear. When Herbert didn’t respond, he kissed his temple and said, “It’s not such a bad thing, to want to be comforted.”

Herbert still refused to acknowledge him, and so Dan sighed and stepped away. The shock of being bodily distanced, isolated though he usually was, made Herbert reel; he had to place one hand against the nearest wall to steady himself. He listened to the bedsprings creak as Dan sat.

“How did you know you were brought back to life, then?” Dan asked.

“It hurt.” Herbert said.

“Of course it hurt. Your ribs were broken.”

Herbert shook his head and turned to face Dan. “A different kind of hurt.” He recalled Dan’s fingers on his neck. “Not this.” He hovered his fingers over his sternum, as Dan had done, then let his hand trail down between his ribs. “The ache of existence,” he mused to himself. “Something we don’t normally notice because we’re so immersed in it.” When he looked at Dan, he saw his hunched shoulders and hollows of his eyes and the blood that had been washed away. “I’m sorry,” he said, and sat beside Dan, as close as he would allow himself.

“For what?”

“That life causes you so much pain.”

Dan shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “I like life. Death, though…”

“We will defeat death.”

“So you say.” He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Herbert hesitated, then reached out and put his hand on Dan’s thigh. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” Dan said, and shifted closer to him, rubbing his hand over Herbert’s back.

Before Dan could kiss him again, Herbert managed to interject: “I don’t want this to jeopardize our working relationship.”

“Fine.”

“This is just for tonight. You can’t ask me for this again.”

Dan kissed him. “I won’t.”

  


Later, as Dan’s hand brought him to a jerking and violent orgasm, Herbert experienced a cessation of pain so excruciating that, when he returned to his body, he was almost relieved by the violent fit of coughing that struck as he attempted to catch his breath. It was the kind of pain that he could understand.

He didn’t even protest when Dan, upon seeing the blood in his mucous, bullied him into going to the emergency room. At least, he figured, Dan would get to save someone that day.


End file.
